I'll Be At Holmes For Christmas
by Bec Le
Summary: You can imagine the Christmas dinners...well, John Watson doesn't have to imagine anymore, since he's been invited to the Holmes Christmas dinner. Minor wounds to major characters because what's Christmas without a trip to the A&E?
1. I'll Be At Holmes for Christmas

All in all, John thought, things could have been worse.

Mind you, not that much worse. Not when you were dealing with the Holmes family Christmas.

They'd at least kept the guns in the drawers this time.

* * *

><p>He'd gotten invited to Christmas with the Holmes family, by Mycroft. Sherlock seemed to think Christmas dinner was a conspiracy to get him to eat and listen to his brother at the same time, and he bitched for days before they actually left for the dinner.<p>

John had ignored his flatmate's whining and accepted, thinking that if he had to spend another year holding his sister's head up from the toilet bowl while she wailed about Clara inbetween retches, that he'd just stay home.

But watching Sherlock and Mycroft snarl at each other was good spectator sport, so long as one hid the knives and got out of the way.

* * *

><p>He must be a masochist, thought John as he drove along at a speed which he hoped the police wouldn't ticket him for.<p>

"Hurry UP, John…" came a pained moan from the backseat.

"You're not bleeding that badly, Sherlock, so stop it."

There was a muttered cursing from the other person at John's left, currently leaning back in his seat and holding a handkerchief to his face.

"I understand Latin well enough to know that was rude, Mycroft. Knock it off," John shot back.

* * *

><p>It had just been dinner for the four of them- Sherlock's mother cooked a small turkey and some side dishes. Mrs. Holmes had queried about Sherlock's cases and that had entertained awhile; John had chipped in with his half and then Mrs. Holmes had asked Mycroft about his work, too.<p>

Sherlock chimed in. "He spends his time texting me and starting world wars. What else do you need to know?"

Mycroft looked mildly affronted. "I haven't started a world war yet, not intentionally."

"Next week, then? Bolivians had enough of your sniveling?"

"I've certainly had enough of yours," Mycroft snipped.

"If you'd stop interrupting my work all the time…"

"I am merely keeping you busy so that you don't fall into old habits."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed down to slits. "What. Habits?"

Mycroft let off a sordid little laugh. "Don't upset Mummy now, Sherlock…"

Sherlock looked at his mother for a moment, calmly trying to eat her dinner midst the heated battle rising between her sons. She had clearly done it many times before.

John stuck his foot in it. "Shut it, Mycroft."

Mycroft stood up, wiping his mouth with his napkin and dropping it neatly onto his empty plate.

"I just wouldn't want my darling little brother falling back onto the same old 'track', if you know what I mean. It was so dreadful last time. So upsetting. Wouldn't want someone outside the family getting mixed up in it when it happens again."

"Mycroft, stop baiting him," said Mrs. Holmes, clearly sensing Sherlock's swelling rage on the other side of her.

Sherlock snarled, "Go back to your Bolivians, Mycroft, and leave me to my work."

Mycroft snorted, "The last time you were like this, too. Unsettled. Unstable. Highly emotional. Bouncing from point to point until you crashed. I do hope you're not on anything, Sherly?"

That was it, the final straw. Some part of their shared childhood memories came roaring up and before John could stop him, Sherlock had stood up from his chair and thrown his napkin down.

"I'll show you what I'm on. Duel outside in the back garden."

Mycroft didn't even hesitate. "Splendid. The usual-rapiers, ten paces, first blood wins?"

"Yes," said Sherlock through gritted teeth.

"I'll get the equipment. Back garden, ten minutes. Any later and you forfeit," said Mycroft.

Sherlock snorted. "As if."

* * *

><p>John was a little concerned about the rapiers. He was a lot concerned with the mention of "first blood." But really, the whole idea of a duel was completely stupid.<p>

"This is stupid, Sherlock. First blood?"

"It is tradition, John," Sherlock said as he rolled up his sleeves in preparation for battle. "First to draw blood always wins."

"Tradition be damned. Who's going to tape you all back together when it's over?"

Sherlock looked at him, astounded. "You're the army doctor. Figure it out."

At the look on Sherlock's face and the emergence of the fencing equipment from the attic, John gave up trying to reason the argument to a less violent end.

Their mother was nonplussed, as evidenced by her last statement to John as she had gone upstairs to bed.

"Could you patch them up and all when they're done with their little tiff?"

John nodded, unable to say anything else.

"There's a good lad," she said, patting him on the arm as she headed off.

* * *

><p>Sherlock walked out the front door, while Mycroft came out of the back. They met in the back garden, facemasks in place and rapiers at the ready.<p>

They turned their backs and walked ten paces away in opposite directions, counting off. John stood shivering in his winter coat, thinking he could be at Harry's and watching her drink vodka by the gallon.

"First position!" Sherlock called.

Both put their rapiers up in the air over their heads.

"3! 2! 1!"

And they were at it, the rapiers whipping in the chill air. Mycroft was clearly the lesser of the two at this-Sherlock danced around him and avoided the tip of the rapier with deft feet.

It appeared that the younger Holmes would win…that was, until Mycroft cheated and swung round at Sherlock. The rapier put a nice gash in Sherlock's palm.

"Ha!' said Mycroft, but Sherlock wasn't done yet. With a yell of something that sounded like French, Sherlock retaliated. He dove for Mycroft's face mask, tore it off, and punched his brother in the eye.

What would have turned into a fistfight on the ground was ended by John separating the two of them, handing out temporary bandages, and ordering them to go to the car with no arguments.

* * *

><p>At the A &amp; E, as John consulted with a nurse on how best to patch Sherlock and Mycroft up, she smirked at the two brothers, sitting on opposite sides of a curtain waiting for treatment.<p>

"Every year with those two. Like clockwork. Christmas night, in they come. Different injuries every year, but the same thing. Small hospital like this, we only see two patients on a night like this and it's always them."

It didn't make John feel any better that this had happened before. It just made him madder.

He did some stitches for the cut above Mycroft's eye and ice for the swelling, reprimanding him the whole time and receiving no answer. He did Sherlock's stitches next.

"You two need to learn to settle your problems in a nice, nonviolent way," said John, pulling the stitches tighter than he actually meant to.

"Nonviolence is boring," muttered Sherlock.

"Boring, but there's less blood involved. Stop wriggling around."

"It stings," whined Sherlock.

"Think about that next time you want to get on the wrong side of Mycroft's rapier. What were you thinking?"

John finished and tied off the stitches.

"There. Done. And for God's sake, a therapist next time, huh?"

There was a collective snort from both Holmes brothers.

He let them both finish the paperwork and they went back out to the car. John decided he was driving.

"Sherlock, in back. Mycroft, in front. If either of you start anything, I WILL finish it. I'm not going to stitch one more wound tonight, got it?"

There was silence, so apparently the two genius brothers had gotten the message.

They drove in silence all the way back to the house, John trying to think of things to say and finding nothing he could.

* * *

><p>The next day, Mycroft went back to London by private jet on the local runway, and he and Sherlock were driven back in one of Mycroft's government cars.<p>

"I'm surprised," said John as he settled into his seat.

Sherlock, across from him and lying down across the seat with his stitched hand on his stomach, turned his eyes toward John. "That Mycroft let us ride in one of these?"

"After you punched him? Yeah."

"It's not the first time I've punched him, you know."

John shook his head. "I figured."

* * *

><p>Back at 221B Baker Street, life started to swing back to a semi-normal state…normal, that was, until Mycroft turned up at the flat two days later. Sherlock had sworn to ignore any messages from his brother until the stitches came out of his hand. Mycroft didn't see it that way. He called John to say he was coming, and Sherlock was prepared for him.<p>

In a grand gesture that fit the whole drama to a capital D, Sherlock threw cold water all over Mycroft from the window of their flat, called his brother something in French that sounded like swearing, and slid back through fighting a laugh.

"Are all your Christmas holidays like this?" John said as Mycroft's multilingual curses floated through the open window.

"Almost always," said Sherlock, smirking.

* * *

><p>John decided he could go to Harry's next Christmas, but honestly? He'd probably go to the Holmes family celebrations next year.<p>

After all, someone had to patch up Sherlock and Mycroft when they tried to kill each other again.

Or at least hide the fencing equipment.

THE END

* * *

><p>POSTSCRIPT: Titles that didn't make the cut (ha ha ha):<p>

A Holmesian Christmas,

Or Joy To the World, Mycroft's Found the Fencing Swords,

Or God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman and Get Your Stitches Put In,

Or Oh, Come, Oh Come at Me With A Rapier,

Or I Saw Sherlock and Mycroft Trying To Kill Each Other,

Or Gloria in Rapier Deo, Or

Where Sherlock and Mycroft Lately Bled,

Away In A Garden, With Rapiers Aloft


	2. Reviews for I'll Be At Holmes for Xmas

Fanfiction's review response is broken as of late. I'm trying to keep up with the responses-I'm always a stickler for responding to reviews because I value every reader that takes the time. I will try to keep this updated, so if you've reviewed, take a look here for now.

Druid Archer: I'm American, too :) We haven't actually managed this with my family yet, but I suspect it's coming one of these days. Thanks for your review!

CPAnthoni: Thank you. The brainstorming sort of splatted all over the end of this story and I couldn't resist leaving the whole mess in there for an extra chuckle.

To Richoc3t-Thank you for such a lovely review!

To Magpieintheshadow: I'm so glad you love it-I was snickering like a fool when I was writing it.

To Jason Layton: I liked that title, too! Mrs. Holmes is a saint to put up with those two sons of hers.

To Roxanna123: I think their mother has given up on the two of them. They'd never actually kill each other, just maim lightly. Thanks for your review!


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